


adrenaline junkie.

by seizonsha



Category: Dangan Ronpa - All Media Types, Dangan Ronpa: Trigger Happy Havoc, Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Ants, Blood and Injury, Bugs & Insects, Canon-Typical Violence, Despair, Enoshima Junko Being An Asshole, Gen, Guns, Hope's Peak Academy, I just ignore DR3 because it’s shit, Lowercase, Manipulation, Weapons
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-18
Updated: 2020-04-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 05:40:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,043
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23710072
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/seizonsha/pseuds/seizonsha
Summary: ( — it’s scary how much they trust her, really. )mukuro is breathing hard, every gasp for air rattling in her chest like a cry for help. her face is coated in blood and a sheen of sweet, watery tears cutting traintracks through the grime on her cheeks.there’s a ladder in the fashionista’s thigh highs and a rip in her dress.but god, she feels fucking alive.
Relationships: Enoshima Junko & Ikusaba Mukuro, Enoshima Junko & Kamukura Izuru, Enoshima Junko & Komaeda Nagito
Comments: 2
Kudos: 34





	adrenaline junkie.

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this in two days. if it seems odd and disconnected then im doing it right

somedays mukuro reminds her of an ant, junko decides while sitting in the dirt outside their neighbourhood’s local children’s centre and staining her white dress brown.

( she’ll just tell sensei that someone pushed her. )

ants can carry leaves ten or fifty times their body weight. ants can travel 300 metres in an hour. ants live their whole lives serving those better and stronger than them still. in that sense, really, mukuro is like an ant - strong beyond imagination every time she lifts junko in a piggyback ride, fast beyond belief every time she outruns matsuda in a race, and hilariously stupid every time she promises junko her life. 

( junko has always loved killing ants, watching them squirm and run from her shoes, writhe and shrivel under the sunlight. )

mukuro is no different.

“junko-chan?”

mukuro’s black hair, cut short because junko told her to, shadows her face and makes her cheekbones, defined despite the puppy fat on both of them, stand out a little more. it’s disgusting how much they look like each other - though mukuro’s always been a little more plain. sharp blue eyes fade in comparison to junko’s striking red, mukuro’s yamato nadeshiko hair dulling beside her sister's scarlet. freckles marring cream white skin like scars. awkward smile. limbs with what everyone calls too much muscle for a girl. 

ants are pretty creatures, when you look at them for long enough. bodies intricately crafted by evolution, shiny black or tinged brown-red. fine limbs, small, delicate eyes. 

but really, they’re not pretty at all. put an ant next to a peacock and it’s easy to pick a favourite. 

( if the peacock didn’t eat the ant, that is. )

yes, then. mukuro is an ant, weak and ugly and easy to crush. she’s -

“what are you doing?” mukuro asks, more insistent this time. she looks a little put off from being ignored the last time.

junko grins up at her, a radiant smile creasing her eyes and brightening her whole face, and her sister seems to melt, a little, hesitant frown disappearing off her face and tense shoulders relaxing.

“hiya, mukuro-chan. i’m,” she picks up an ant fatter, bigger, glossier than the rest, digging her sharp nails into its back. the queen still squirms even as its legs hit the ground at junko’s feet.

“i’m playing with the insects.”

-

junko has a way of dealing with her classmates, and it goes something like this.

she teaches them what it’s like to hate.

everyone needs someone to despise, to loathe with all their heart. even nanami-senpai from the seventy seventh, sweet natured and forgiving as she is, needs someone to hate. the people who don’t are liars.

( but god does it feel good to be )

“maizono-san,” she hiccups over a bowl of instant ramen, “kuwata-kun keeps making rude comments about me. i just can’t stand men like that, you know? i wish he’d cut it out. i don’t even feel safe leaving my dorm, anymore…”

maizono frowns, reaching out to clasp her hands softly. there’s a suitably worried expression creasing her features, sympathy pooling like unshed tears in eyes bluer than a strangled corpse. she stares determinedly into her cup of matcha tea, head shaking in disapproval.

“men, sometimes,” she murmurs, clicking her tongue. “that’s so horrible, enoshima-san! i can’t believe him!” she offers, looking carefully around the cafeteria. “do you want me to tell sensei about this..?”

junko smiles.

“no, it’s okay. i wouldn’t wanna cause a fuss, you know? that’d be so awful of me… i just want to make sure you’re okay, you know? keep an eye out.”

“yes,” maizono agrees far too easily, far too trusting, “i’ll text the other girls soon, and ask nanami-senpai to tell her class. how awful.”

( it’s scary how much they trust her, really. )

-

junko is something of an adrenaline junkie. there’s something about the feeling of her heart threatening to tear itself from her ribcage, the panicked buzz of her blood through her skull, the way her breathing shifts and she feels like she’s going to bleed out on the floor if she ever stops moving, if she ever looks back if she ever lets herself stop.

that is, junko was something of an adrenaline junkie:

-

mukuro’s singing as she straightens junko’s hair. her voice isn’t ugly, by any means, but it’s coming out of the mouth of a glorified guard dog, which really ruins the illusion.

“mukuro,” the gyaru says idly, and her sister looks up, “how much more do you have to do? i’m getting bored.”

the soldier seems to wither behind her, voice petering out. god, it’s sickening, how easily she cowers at junko’s feet, but it’s better than if she had some kind of spine. mukuro’s the stronger of them by a long shot, and, really, it’s plain as day that she’d kill the fashionista given the chance — if she had a backbone( that is.

“i’ll only be a few more minutes,” she says, voice a soft deadpan, and junko curls her lip into a sneer.

“that wasn’t the fucking question, you idiot,” she snaps, reaching to dig freshly painted nails into the soft flesh of mukuro’s wrist. less pained than surprised, mukuro drops the straightener, hot irons hitting the back of her other arm and falling to the floor at her feet. 

there’s an audible hiss that escapes her twin’s mouth as she realises what’s happened, eyes widening a fraction. 

“look what you’ve done, mukuro-chan,” junko purrs, reaching out to brush a strand of hair back from her dog’s face. “i’m sorry you’re so clumsy. maybe you should go back to using the training chopsticks.”

mukuro nods wordlessly.

“i don’t care what anyone else says about you, though.” she continues, inspecting her nails for smudges or missed spots. “i don’t think you’re so bad.”  
  


there’s a smile on mukuro’s face, now. 

it’s gross. like watching a little child smile because you praised their grades, not knowing that they’d got straight Fs. the kind of blind smile that would make you feel embarrassed, or awkward, or even want to throw something or die on the spot. 

( she likes it. )

-

but now most people would just call her a sick fuck.

-

there is blood on junko’s expensive dress and running down her forehead and staining the heels of her shoes red and none of it belongs to her.

mukuro’s jacket, leather and worn, hangs loosely around her shoulders, already soaked through with rain. her sister’s wearing thick clothes, camouflage pants that smell of rust and steel toed boots, and even though she’s probably cold she does a good job of not showing it. the gyaru absently tugs it a little closer around her, manicured nails drumming on the sleeve. 

“mukuro,” she calls, mascara dripping off her eyelashes like tears, 

-

asahina keeps an arm wrapped tightly around junko’s shoulder, hand rubbing reassuring circles into her upper back. trembling, junko raises her tired head, murmuring a hushed word of thanks into the athlete’s ear. 

she should probably feel guilty.

-

“give me your gun, okay? i need it for something important.”

-

“ it’s okay, enoshima-san,” asahina whispers back, squeezing her hand, “i’m sure sensei will take care of things. i can’t believe kuwata-kun would talk to you that way! some people.”

“yeah,” junko replies distantly, hoping the apathy in her voice sounds like pain, “some people. it just,”

asahina frowns.

-

“isn’t that a little dangerous?”

junko stares down at her boots, name brand and worth more than a reserve course kid. they stink of mud and blood, white leather dyed a brown-copper colour. she’ll throw these away when she gets home.

“that’s the point,” she sounds out every syllable of her name, “mukuro-chan.”

“okay.”

-

nothing that has made junko happy has made her feel alive.

-

“enoshima-san, are you alright?”

asahina looks worried.

kirigiri is staring at her.

the bird outside the window shudders and falls thirty feet off the balcony.

“brings me so much despair.”

she smiles.

-

mukuro is breathing hard, every gasp for air rattling in her chest like a cry for help. her face is coated in blood and a sheen of sweet, watery tears cutting traintracks through the grime on her cheeks.

there’s a ladder in the fashionista’s thigh highs and a rip in her dress. 

but god, she feels fucking alive. kamukura dresses like fake royalty, polished shoes and pressed suit a sharp contrast to the battered state of mukuro’s military style. 

he’s beautiful. not in the way sakura trees or oiran are beautiful - not in the way the rising sun or supermodels are beautiful.

kamukura izuru is the thrill of having a gun held to your head, the adrenaline rush of being pushed headfirst into freezing water, the sinking agony of being hideously bored with far too much energy to use.

( a little boredom can be a very dangerous thing. )

“mukuro, sit.”

this creature is the gun to her knife fight. it’s exciting.

-

but that never stopped her before.

-

happiness doesn’t describe it.

it’s like being told that you’re loved for the first time,

and hoping, deep down, that they don’t mean it.

despair. that’s what it is. it’s addictive, every stab of regret like a shot of pure serotonin, every kind smile like a knife being twisted in her gut. 

( is it bad that it’s fun? )

-

komaeda nagito is like a fever dream in all the worst ways. when he smiles he smiles like he’s watching the end of the world, when he laughs he laughs like he’s just offered you his soul on a silver platter and when he levels a gun to your face and threatens to shoot you he has the expression of someone who fully intends to do it.

the room is unpleasantly cold, and, hidden behind komaeda like a bad memory, junko can just about see nanami-senpai’s silhouette. the girl is tugging frantically at her classmate’s sleeve, expression frozen with horror, and, even as komaeda examines the gun, moving to disable the safety, she’s pleading for him to stop.

“i’m afraid that’s not a possibility, nanami-san,” the lucky student murmurs softly, empty green eyes threatening to take junko by the throat and cut open her spine. “killing,”

his finger slides onto the trigger, 

“isn’t wrong, see? i’m happy to face the consequences if it means being a - “

“oh my god, can you stop it? you sound like a fucking broken record! hope this, hope that!” junko interrupts. her hands move to rest on her hips, pleated skirt falling smoothly over her hips and the gun resting beneath her skirt. “you really piss me off, you know.”

kamukura stands behind the upperclassmen, gun in hand.

“komaeda-kun really shouldn’t have given that to him!”

-

this is what having fun is like, junko tells herself.

yes.

she’s having fun.

she has to be.

-

komaeda’s smile is radiant and warm, every breathless laugh like a thousand splendid stars bursting into flame overhead. he is beautiful, disgustingly so - slender fingers like a pianist, white hair like an angel, pale skin and sharp cheekbones like a corpse. it’s easy to see how someone like him could be so easily destroyed by love, how easily someone like him could be loved, and, as he dutifully disregards his shaking hands for the sake of helping junko braid her hair,

junko can see exactly how she’s going to make this kid hit the ground hard, can see the way his tears will spill like cut veins down his cheeks.

( no, no. she won’t regret it. )

-

“mukuro-chan, i wanna make some money.”

-

mukuro’s strangles screams die in her throat, body pierced through like a glorified target dummy. the freckles that junko hates are painted over with violent pink-red, and, as her knees drop ( that’ll bruise for sure ), she shudders a little. there’s horror, raw and pained, in her eyes, and, staring with very real fear into monokuma’s mechanical face,

junko thinks she might regret it, a little.

fuck that. she just killed her sister. she killed her sister she killed her own sister fuck she’s never going back from that this is it she’s fucking done it but she did it really when she fell in love with the idea of kamukura izuru 

-

( god, she can’t stand it. it feels good. 

fuck does it feel good. )


End file.
